


The Artist

by Sunnyrea



Series: The War [3]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 20:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10601313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: Hamilton tosses the ruined letter onto the floor with a disgruntled noise and reaches to his left for a new sheet. It is a wonder they are still stocked with paper at this rate. He flips the page around and puts it down in front of him but suddenly notices the page is not empty. On the paper, Hamilton finds a drawing.[Hamilton finds drawings while working at headquarters and tries to discover who the artist is and where it might lead him.][Part of a series but can be read as a stand alone story]





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have tried to keep this historically compliant to time line, era, etc. but it is not perfect. I did my best! My Hamilton gave me the prompt of, 'Hamilton finds out that Laurens is an artist' and I got a bit out of hand.
> 
> ALSO, I edited this a bit since first posting to fix some historical time line errors, so if you like rereading things, it will be a little bit different now in the war and troop discussions.

Alexander Hamilton sits at a round wooden table with just one candle still burning. His Excellency only went to bed an hour previously and the other aides-de-camp before that. Hamilton, however, has another letter to write to Congress. For a group of men who sent the whole gamble of independence into motion they are doggedly determined at providing ill support to the men fighting their design. Hamilton cannot wait for the day when he can stand among them and rail against their insufficiency until it is set to rights. 

“Because I would do well more than they seem able,” Hamilton mutters to himself.

Still, Hamilton only left his New York regiment and became an aide-de-camp for the General less than a year past. The resumption of battle with the summer and fall months has seen him far busy enough with his pen. Hamilton can certainly focus his attentions on the now and keep such future aspirations for a later date.

Hamilton sighs, rubs a hand across his forehead then widens his eyes again to keep himself awake. He knows not the time at this point but it matters little. He must finish this letter pertaining to additional troop recruitment. Desertion is still a problem despite the popularity of the General encouraging more conscripts.

Hamilton dips his pen into the ink well again just as a yawn shakes him. His hand jerks with the yawn and the ink well tips part way. Hamilton jolts up and manages to grab the bottle before it completely upends on his papers. However, it does leave a large blot over the beginning of his first three sentences.

“Blast...” Hamilton clenches his teeth and puts his pen down. 

He picks up the page but there is no saving it. Hamilton tosses the ruined letter onto the floor with a disgruntled noise and reaches to his left for a new sheet. It is a wonder they are still stocked with paper at this rate. He flips the page around and puts it down in front of him but suddenly notices the page is not empty. 

On the paper, Hamilton finds a drawing. It looks as though someone started it in charcoal but then finished it in ink, possibly made over several days? The drawing is of someone's hand clutching a quill. The fingers are long, delicate in a way but definitely masculine. The detail is extraordinary, creases in the skin, veins and the bend of each finger; even the quill has specific breaks and tears from wear.

Hamilton picks up the sheet to see it better in the light but careful to keep it from the flame. It must be one of the other aides-de-camp work. He has seen Washington doodle curling lines on his page or the occasional star but it is never so well performed as this. Hamilton smiles as he looks at the hand and he wonders whose hand it is.

“Hamilton?”

Hamilton drops the paper onto the desk as though caught in the act of some subterfuge and looks up at the voice. John Laurens stands in the doorway with a book and some papers in his arms. He cocks his head at Hamilton. “It is gone two, you should be abed.”

Hamilton clears his throat and slides an empty piece of paper over his discovery. “I have one letter yet to write.”

Laurens raises an eyebrow. “One? One that cannot simply wait until the morning?” Laurens gestures around the empty room. “I see no courier ready to ride it out at once.”

Hamilton frowns at Laurens. “One to be ready for sending at first light.”

Laurens purses his lips. “And you could not possibly rise early enough to write this letter before the first dispatches leave?” Hamilton opens his mouth to protest but Laurens cuts him off. “Because, of course, you shall rise this early regardless.”

Hamilton sits back in his chair. “I wonder at you marking my sleeping patterns so.”

Laurens pauses and for a moment his expression appears odd but it passes before Hamilton can truly mark it. “Everyone knows you rise as early as the General, Hamilton. Sleep will do you better than attempting the letter now.”

Hamilton stares at Laurens for a moment then looks down at his empty paper. He can see the edge of the drawing beneath it, the point of the quill on undrawn paper. For a moment, he considers asking Laurens if he knows the artist.

“Please, Hamilton.” Hamilton looks up at the tone of Laurens' voice. “We do not want you catching a fever again.”

Hamilton bristles slightly at the mention of his health but Laurens is not wrong.

“As you wish.” He stands up and picks up the finished dispatches around him to place with the first post. “I will sleep.”

Laurens smiles and steps into the room. He picks up Hamilton's candle and as he does, Hamilton scoops the hand drawing into his pile. He cannot exactly explain why. 

“Come then, I will watch you walk to your room because if I do not I fear you will sneak back to your desk behind me.”

Hamilton laughs once. “I promise to do no such thing.” He pauses as they pass the landing at the stairs where a sideboard stands. “Tonight at least.” 

Hamilton places his finished correspondence on top of the sideboard with the rest from the other aides-de-camp. Then he looks at Laurens again, the candle light framing Laurens' face like a halo. 

Laurens smiles. “As much as I can expect.”

Hamilton smiles and follows Laurens down the hall toward the bedrooms, the drawing folded and tucked away into his coat.

 

The next morning, Hamilton does indeed rise with enough time to pen the letter he accidentally destroyed last evening. He helps assemble the bag for the morning’s courier, sure to check not only his own but all the other correspondence leaving for proper sealing and addresses.

“We are all quite able to write, Hamilton,” Joseph Reed chides him from the front door of the house which they are using as headquarters. “Or do you think we simply obtained our positions by way of flattery?”

“You, perhaps?”

Reed frowns at him. “Or you.”

“Some of us manage well by flattery and skill.” 

Reed only shakes his head and walks back inside. Hamilton salutes the rider then follows where Reed led. The morning breakfast repast has already begun, a long line of men at a table in the front room of the house with General Washington at the head. Many of the men are reading letters or writing upon papers. There is trouble with forces in the south and the distance to reach them via correspondence makes the problems all the more compounded.

Hamilton sits down beside Tench Tilghman who scoots his stack of papers to the side to give Hamilton room. Before he can ask, Laurens passes Hamilton the jug of coffee from across the table. 

“It is tepid but serviceable,” he mentions before he turns back to his eggs.

Hamilton watches Laurens for a moment then pours some coffee into his waiting mug. It will no doubt be another long day ahead.

 

Hamilton spends the morning sequestered with Tilghman and John Fitzgerald all writing out recruitment plans, new recruitment incentives from Congress including land allocations, health and cleanliness requirements, not to mention the many orders for the push of their forces on toward the British. The day has been non-stop and Hamilton's head spins with continuously duplicated letters and the scratch of quills. 

Near lunch, he breaks to his shared room, currently empty, for a moment of peace. He closes his eyes, tries to gather his thoughts. He thinks, unbidden, about the rain in the Caribbean, loud and oppressive, bringing with it the promise of sickness. Hamilton clenches his jaw as he opens his eyes and focuses on something physical in the room, something to ground him in the now instead of the harmful memories.

Hamilton reaches for his gray coat. He searches in the pocket for the drawing he found and took with him the evening before. He stared at it for half an hour last night as he lay in bed before he drifted off to sleep. The life-like quality and gentle lines of the art calm him for some reason.

However, when he reaches for the pocket where he knows the page must be he finds nothing. Hamilton sits up straight and stretches the pocket as wide as he is able; nothing inside. He frowns and glances uselessly around the room, as if it should have flown away to the window or elsewhere.

He looks at the shared desk but sees nothing of consequence. “Where could...”

He puts his coat back on the chair then kneels on the floor to check under his bed.

“Hamilton?”

Hamilton jerks up, slamming his head on the support beam of the bed. He gasps in pain, grasping one hand over the offending spot as he rises. Laurens looks down at him in concern from the doorway.

“I... are you hurt?”

Hamilton shakes his head slowly. “The bed shall not best me yet.”

Laurens laughs once politely. “Have you lost something?”

Hamilton glances at his other coat draped over the chair. Then he stands up again, pulling his hand away from the throbbing in his skull. “No.”

Hamilton thinks he sees Laurens look at Hamilton's coat too but then he is looking at Hamilton again without further comment. “His Excellency requires us. We are to review the regiment positions within New York.”

“Of course.”

Laurens smiles and holds out his arm for Hamilton to precede him. Hamilton slides past Laurens in the door way, their buttons clicking against each other. Hamilton oddly finds himself smiling again.

 

Come the evening, Hamilton chooses to forgo the dinner to finish a dispatch to the governor of Virginia. Reed sits at the desk across from him but Hamilton sees his eyelids slipping closed over and over. Hamilton knows Reed spent the day with the General riding out to the main encampment and only returned an hour past. 

Hamilton finishes the report to the Governor then rises to get some sealing wax from the table perpendicular to his own. As he picks up the wax, something catches his eye. He turns back and sees the black outline of a finger peeking out from underneath a messy stack of notes. Hamilton glances at Reed whose eyes are full closed now. Then Hamilton pinches the corner of the page and pulls it out from under the stack. The image on the page is not the one he expected. 

The subject is indeed hands once again, two hands this time. The fingers are loosely laid on top of each other, palms up, no quill or pencil gripped in them, however. It is a different drawing but obviously the same artist. Hamilton glances at Reed but it cannot be his work; he was absent the whole day. Though truly Hamilton has no way of knowing if the drawing was made today or weeks ago. The hands somehow seem more familiar in this relaxed state. Hamilton holds the paper closer to his face. Surely there must be something identifiable in the hands? But if he thinks on it, how often does he truly inspect another person's hands?

“Who are you?” Hamilton mutters to himself, asking both of the model and artist. Who has such time for this level of detail? Or is the artist that skilled?

“Well now, if you two are quite finished being martyrs to the cause.” 

Hamilton spins around and nearly leaps over the table so he is seated again at his position with a clatter that wakes Reed just as Laurens appears in the doorway from down the hall, a bowl held in each hand.

Reed squints at him. “What?”

Laurens raises his eyebrows at him. “Food.”

“Ha.” Reed leans back in his chair. “And you have naught better to do that bring us stew? Another confidential mission, perhaps?”

“Eat it.” Laurens says sternly as he puts the bowl of stew down to the left of Reed's work with a glare.

“Had you been sitting in my seat writing the same letters in circle you would understand my plight and cramping hand,” Reed gripes. “See what appetite you have then. ”

Hamilton sees Laurens frown and roll his eyes. “I can take the food back. Others would gladly take your portion. ”

Reed says something unintelligible then pulls the bowl toward himself.

Laurens then turns toward Hamilton. Hamilton sits trying to look innocent with the drawing face down on the table underneath his hands. He does not know why he feels like a guilty school child but somehow he knows he should not be seeing these works, let alone absconding with them. 

Laurens holds up the bowl of stew. “You shall be pleased to know it tastes like genuine food tonight.”

Hamilton smiles. “Best not let the household staff hear you say so.”

Laurens grins as he places the bowl down upon the desk. “Oh, their cook would and has heard me say so. We have quite the war raging between us. It is a wonder I have not yet been poisoned.”

Hamilton laughs outright this time. “Then how can I not be concerned my own meal is poisoned if you brought it to me?”

Laurens purses his lips. “I promise to do all I can to save your life should it be so.”

“But should your meal have already been poisoned we shall both be in a pitiful state. ”

“Fair point. ”

“Enough, ” Reed snaps. “Some of us have work yet to do today more important than womanish banter!”

Laurens turns away sharply with a strange strangled sort of noise and shoots Reed a look. Hamilton watches Laurens' back as he retreats from the room then looks across at Reed again with a frown. 

“What?” Hamilton asks.

Reed only shakes his head and turns back to his work.

Hamilton frowns again, sits up straight and looks back at his work. He slides his new pilfered drawing to the side and chooses the sealing wax he meant to obtain in the first place. As he melts the wax onto the folded seal of the letter, he looks at the bowl of soup. He realizes he forgot to thank Laurens for the attention.

 

It is not until two days later – what with a flurry of activity concerning moving the army north into Pennsylvania, missing artillery supplies, an unexpected court marshal of another deserter, nine men all crammed writing in the same room – that Hamilton is finally able to find Laurens alone.

Laurens sits on the back porch of the house, the sun low on the horizon now making ripples of light across the river. Most of his Excellency's staff either attends to dinner or is with the General out in the field. Hamilton stands in the doorway for a moment watching Laurens. Laurens sits on the edge of the porch, his feet supported by the second step and the tails of his coat flipped up behind him to avoid being crushed underneath him. His hair is not powdered today, so the dark blond is apparent. It took Hamilton near two weeks to find out the true color of Laurens' hair when he first arrived what with his proper Southern powdering. Laurens has let decorum slip some in the month since Hamilton has known him. War and the busy nature of their roles brings out such lapses. But Hamilton would not argue against them as he finds Laurens' hair a pleasant sight. He wonders what it might feel like under his hand.

Hamilton shakes the odd thought away and clears his throat to make apparent his presence as he steps out onto the porch. Laurens starts slightly and snaps closed the portfolio in his hands. He looks up at Hamilton in some semblance of alarm but eases slightly when he sees it is Hamilton.

Hamilton smiles at him. “Might I join you?”

Laurens gestures to the step beside him. “As you will.”

Hamilton sits beside Laurens, flipping out the tails of his coat in mimic of Laurens. Laurens glances at him then looks back out over the water toward the sun peeking between the trees.

“What were you working on?” Hamilton asks, gesturing to the leather portfolio on Laurens' lap.

Laurens glances down then back up at Hamilton with a shake of his head. “Nothing of consequence.”

Hamilton nods. “Well, I simply...” He suddenly feels awkward about thanking Laurens for a kindness days past. Has he missed his opportunity? But he is here now. “I wanted to thank you for your aid some evenings back.”

“Aid?”

“In ensuring I do not starve.”

Laurens chuckles. “Ah yes, the poison soup.”

Hamilton shrugs once. “Clearly not so, unless I have an immunity I was hereto unaware of.”

“Good for you in either instance.”

“Quite so.”

They smile at each other for a moment. Hamilton thinks that Laurens has gained new shadows beneath his eyes in the past weeks. But haven't they all? Beyond that he looks remarkably well for a southerner flung so far north. His eyes are bright and his smile still comes readily. Hamilton suddenly realizes he has been staring too long at Laurens and looks away again.

“Well, that is what I wished to say.” Hamilton clears his throat again. He is not usually devoid of speech but at the moment he can think of nothing proper to impart. 

“Well.” Hamilton turns to Laurens as he saves them from the gap of silence. “You have as much right to the stew at the rest of us I dare say, lest Reed thieve it all.”

Hamilton laughs. “Ah, did he sneak a second bowl beyond the one you brought him?”

Laurens nods in a serious manner. “Everyone knows it. Were Reed to be asked, he would claim none taken with two empty bowls before him. Such cheek has the man.”

Hamilton laughs again. “I did not know you as one to joke so! And poor Reed as your object?”

Laurens grins. “Perhaps the company brings it out in me.”

Laurens then looks away quickly, a flush Hamilton may be imagining to his cheeks. He reaches up as if to fix his hair but drops his hand down again to clutch at his portfolio. Then he looks back at Hamilton. “As to Reed, he stole my place at the table this morning and I was forced to work down in the family parlor. Most improper.”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “Did he now? And when was it we were assigned specific places?”

Laurens purses his lips and glares at Hamilton though the expression is jovial. “I had taken the place the day before. I may not call myself an official aid-de-camp but we all have dispatches to write and missions to fulfill.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Hamilton says all seriousness. “An important hierarchical distinction. Where exactly were Reed's dispatches headed in comparison to yours?”

Laurens purses his lips again. “I see your aim.”

Hamilton gives him an innocent look. “What aim?”

Laurens laughs once quietly. “Well, I forfeit my line and apologize to Reed in absentia.”

Hamilton nods. “How magnanimous of you.”

“I am able on occasion.”

“Rare occasion.”

Laurens raises his eyebrows. “Rare?”

“I have heard you rail many a time against numerous parties with no desire for providing any later recompense for your words.” Hamilton tilts his head. “Many a South Carolina legislator I believe?”

Lauren scoffs loudly. “If you were forced to deal with the ineptitude of –”

Hamilton cannot stop himself laughing at Laurens' sudden annoyance. Laurens stops and glares at Hamilton again with more truth this time.

Hamilton calms himself, though still grinning. “I apologize but it is too easy.”

Laurens sighs. “I will not apologize for passion. I have things I wish to obtain through this war.”

Hamilton nods, serious this time. “As do I, you need not apologize for your furor.”

“I shall not. ”

They grin at each other. Hamilton thinks the two of them are well on their way to becoming very good friends.

“Well...” Hamilton says as the two of them still stare at each other. “I should let you return to what 'of little consequence' you were engaged in.”

Hamilton stands up, Laurens standing up alongside him. For a moment Laurens appears as if he wishes to say something. Then he shuts his mouth again and nods at Hamilton. “Good evening.”

 

The next few days are a flurry of activity so much so Hamilton barely has a spare moment to think his own thoughts. General Washington called a war council with his command officers and spent many hours in deep consultation. Hamilton himself was sent as courier to meet their various advance forces with instructions for the resumption of battle.

It is not until late evening at the end of the few rushing days, the summer heat starting to edge toward cool autumn, that Hamilton feels he can breathe easy; only a simple letter for congress to write and a report for the General on those fallen ill and its effect on troop strength. The room is awash with broken quills and half written reports. Tilghman's coat lies still over one chair and Hamilton sees a wig in the corner, hopefully not his Excellency's what with the state of it. Hamilton fidgets, overly warm in his wool coat, but he wants to look respectable so leaves it on. 

Hamilton also still hides the one drawing he found in his coat pocket. Since the first disappeared, he desires to keep this one close. He cannot explain why but it oddly comforts him, to find something beautiful among the raging of war and his own frustrations at being trapped at his desk. The hands on the page, the intricate penned lines, the attention to detail that make the hands unique and not some amalgamation of anatomy bring him a sense of calm, that the world may not be so cruel as his experience dictates.

Now, his candle burnt low and the murmur of some of his fellow aids in the next room, Hamilton stands to stretch his legs. He paces for a moment about the room, past the long table near the windows. He does not realize he is looking for it until he sees the familiar artistry of a hand from under a ledger book and ink pot. Hamilton gasps happily as he picks up the pot and book, moving them to the side. He picks up the page to use the setting sunlight from the window to see by.

The drawing this time is not just hands but a person leaning over as if writing, a quill in hand. The person in the drawing is utterly familiar; It is Hamilton.

Hamilton swallows once, looks around though he knows no one is in the room with him. He looks back at the drawing. In the image, he wears his uniform as usual, his cravat perhaps a bit loose which could be expected if the drawing were made later in Hamilton's day. A few hairs are fallen loose in his face and his eyes are cast down as he is focused on his work.

Hamilton frowns because he never sees himself like this. His expression is one of concentration, of hard work, and yet... Yet he looks serene somehow, as though he writes a sonnet and not a letter to congress or some other dispatch.

“Do I look like this...” Hamilton whispers. Or does the artist see him this way?

Hamilton realizes now why the other drawings of hands seemed familiar. Those hands were his. All the drawings he has found are of him.

Hamilton drops the paper onto the table and begins to rifle through the stacks of paper. He finds a report from Maryland, a letter from the congress on uniforms, a new commission for a Robert something. Hamilton keeps shifting the papers around, making more mess than he means to.

“Come, come...” Hamilton chides, as if the drawings he wishes to find were unruly children he could direct.

He strides to the end of the table, picking up candle sticks and books on the law. “There must be...”

“Hamilton, what are you doing?”

Hamilton drops the candle stick with a clatter and jerks his head up. 

Tilghman stands in the doorway looking surprised and amused. “Are you planning to destroy the whole room?”

“I... ” Hamilton looks back along the table and sees the disaster of papers and books he has wrought. Hamilton puts the two books in his hand down and clears his throat. “I... misplaced....” he frowns. “Something.”

Tilghman huffs. “Well, I am sure your 'something' cannot be found in a worse manner. Do you plan to confound the organization of the entire staff?”

Hamilton holds up a hand. “My apologizes, I shall put it right again.”

“You best.”

Hamilton gives him a look which Tilghman responds to with a friendly smile to show his words were in jest.

“Tilghman,” Hamilton asks with a gesture at the table. “Do you know who usually sits here?”

Tilghman stares at him. “Who sits at the table?”

“Here.” Hamilton gestures to the messy pile where he found the drawing. “Who sits here?”

“Why, Hamilton, I would wager we all have at some point.”

Hamilton sighs. He sees Tilghman glancing at the papers, likely to ascertain why Hamilton asks. Hamilton snatches up the drawing and folds it in half. He clears his throat then walks smartly around the table and stops next to Tilghman. “Thank you anyway, Tench.”

Tilghman stares at him searchingly. “Are you quite well, Hamilton?”

“Perfectly sound. If you will excuse me, I will clean up the mess I have made.”

Tilghman stares at him a moment longer then turns on his heel and continues down the passage.

Hamilton waits for a beat to be sure Tilghman does not return then turns around and leans his back against the wall. He opens the drawing in his hand again and stares at himself. He cannot imagine who would watch him so, who would wish to put his image to paper. Who would draw him with so much care as to move Hamilton's heart.

 

The next day, Hamilton discovers his artist.

Hamilton spends all day following Washington around the camp. A war council is planned for the coming days what with the British and General Knyphausen marching near. The General's staff run around the house, directing orders, writing off short instructions what with the likelihood of near battle on all minds. Hamilton sees Reed and Laurens arguing at one point. Laurens flashes him a look as Hamilton trails after his Excellency and they both smile. Hamilton hardly has time to breathe however, before he and Washington are riding out to the far lines to check artillery and for Hamilton to pen another letter south. 

When they breeze through the house again, Fitzgerald pushes a coffee into the General's hands while Laurens appears at Hamilton's side with a coffee for him.

“Thank you,” is all Hamilton manages, though he feels Laurens' hands on his a moment longer as they walk past.

Hamilton darts a look over his shoulder at Laurens standing beside Fitzgerald. Laurens smiles as he holds his portfolio up against his chest. For a moment, Hamilton sees the corner of some paper peeking out from the bottom of the portfolio with a familiar curve of line. However, he is on the move again before he can give it proper thought.

It is at dinner where he really sees it.

Laurens sits beside Tilghman in deep conversation about the situation of slaves in the south. Laurens is heated as he is always is on the slavery issue. He is rifling through his papers, lists of numbers, when he nearly knocks over his cup of tea. He drops the papers to catch the cup and not bring disaster to the table. Tilghman chuckles at him as Laurens sighs. Hamilton, however, a few seats down across the table now has the perfect angle to view Laurens' stack of papers. Half exposed from underneath Laurens' pages of statistics is the start of a portrait. It is just a rough sketch for the most part except the eyes and hands but Hamilton has no difficulty recognizing the beginnings of his own face. It is the same style as the hands, the same as the full portrait. The drawing is a picture of him and it is Laurens who drew it, Laurens who drew them all.

Laurens scoops up the papers again into a neat pile, shoving them back into his portfolio as he continues to preach to Tilghman about the need for emancipation and the benefit of black soldiers. He takes a sip of his tea and glances down the table at Hamilton. Hamilton just stares at him, cannot stop staring because it is Laurens. Laurens, his friend, is his artist, his secret happiness. It is Laurens who must watch him when Hamilton does not see; Laurens who sees something in him, something Hamilton does not see in himself. He wants to stand up right now, grab Laurens, spill the papers all over the table and ask him, beg Laurens to tell him what they are, to tell him why? Why Laurens chose him?

After the meal finishes and the other officers disperse, Hamilton waits. He says his goodnights, claims a need to write as he always does and waits. He watches Laurens until Laurens finally moves toward the stairs up to the room he shares with Reed and two others. Hamilton glances around to see, as he hoped, Reed holding a mug of ale walking back into the front of the house toward their office with a few other men. Hamilton turns quickly and rushes up the stairs.

Hamilton knocks once loudly then opens Laurens' bedroom door without a proper invitation. He steps inside, closes the door behind him and turns in time to see Laurens quickly close his portfolio. 

Laurens stares at him in surprise. “Hamilton?”

Hamilton breathes heavily for two breaths then holds out his hand.

Laurens glances at Hamilton's hand then up at Hamilton's face. “I don't...”

“Let me see.”

“See what –”

“You know what,” Hamilton interrupts.

Laurens expression tightens and he says nothing.

“Laurens,” Hamilton says, his voice softer, “I think I have a right to see as I am the subject.”

Laurens' hands spasm once in surprise or possibly fear. Either way, Hamilton uses the opening to snatch the portfolio from Laurens' hands. Hamilton opens the portfolio and the drawing he spied this evening is already on the top page in preparation for Laurens to work on it. Hamilton flips through the pages, letters and reports until tucked in the back he finds another drawing. This one is complete, Hamilton in profile seated on some stairs, smiling, eyes closed, hands on his knees. Hamilton realizes it is from a few days ago, when he and Laurens sat together on the back porch.

“It is me,” Hamilton says quietly as he stares at the drawing. He pulls the two portraits out and closes the portfolio with his other hand. “They are of me.”

He looks up at Laurens now. Laurens stands stiffly, almost at attention, with his eyes staring at the far wall. His mouth is pinched very tight.

“They are of me,” Hamilton repeats.

Laurens does not respond.

“I... cannot...” 

Hamilton looks at the drawings again. The unfinished portrait is the only one, so far, which shows Hamilton's eyes. They are simple, only done in charcoal but it changes Hamilton's face on the page. It makes him look different, less tired and rushed, less frustrated and trapped and itching for a chance as Hamilton feels in life. No, he looks content, happy. He looks loved.

Hamilton glances up at Laurens again, dreadfully still. Hamilton says, “they are beautiful.”

At this Laurens turns his head slightly toward Hamilton, his expression cautious.

“Why?” Hamilton asks, though part of him knows the answer.

“I... have trouble sleeping,” Laurens replies, his eyes not meeting Hamilton's again.

“That is not what I am asking,” Hamilton reiterates. “Surely that is clear.”

Laurens tenses again. He pushes his shoulders back, arms and hands clasped behind his back like he is giving a report. “What would you have me say?”

“I would have you tell me why... why me?”

Laurens turns his head sharply to stare at Hamilton with his mouth open clearly about to snap something, to shout, to... then he shuts his mouth again with a frustrated sound. He looks away once more. “We need not discuss it. I understand if you should no longer desire to continue a friendship with me and I shall endeavor to stay out of your way as much as possible in the course of my duties.”

Hamilton frowns deeply in confusion. “What? ”

“I imagine you would like to leave now. ”

“Why would I want to do that?”

Laurens scoffs and shakes his head at the wall. “Do not claim ignorance, Hamilton. You are anything but a simpleton.”

Laurens is not wrong. Hamilton understands. He understand the purpose, the feeling, what Laurens means to say.

“Yes, Laurens, I understand.” Hamilton holds out the portfolio and drawings. Laurens looks down at them for a moment as if the sight of them is painful. Then he breaks his stiff stance and abruptly takes the stack, swooping them around hidden behind his back to stand like a statue once more.

“What I don't understand... ” Hamilton starts but finds himself trailing off as he watches Laurens, still and staring at some point far from Hamilton. He keeps his gaze on Laurens, wants to shake him, wishes Laurens would just look at him!

“What I don't understand,” Hamilton tries again, “is why me? Why you...” Laurens' eyes tick to the side to finally look at Hamilton. “Why you care for me?”

Laurens stiff stance eases. “Oh Hamilton.” He shifts slightly and drops the portfolio down on his bed behind him. “You cannot be so blind to your own virtues?”

“I...” Hamilton smiles. “Well, perhaps not.”

Laurens smiles back but does not continue. He glances at the closed door behind Hamilton then back again. He is waiting, Hamilton can see, to determine what Hamilton will do now.

They stand silently for a moment. Hamilton finds himself mirroring Laurens position, stiff, hands clasped behind his back.

“You draw very well,” Hamilton finally says.

Laurens smiles awkwardly. “Thank you.”

“I never... I never noticed you... you watching... ”

“Oh.”

“I suppose you must have, uh...”

“Well... I...”

“With such detail...”

“We are in each other's company often.”

“And the time to complete them. ”

“I am afforded free hours. ”

“But...”

“But, yes, yes, Hamilton, I have watched you,” Laurens suddenly says in a rush like a bark. “I have watched you since I came here, since we... since we met. You are...” Laurens blows out a slow breath, closes his eyes once then looks full at Hamilton. “You are quite singular, Hamilton. You are very...” He lets his hands fall to his sides. “I do care about you, for you.” Laurens sighs again. “And it is too late to make you believe otherwise so there it is.”

Hamilton breathes slowly in and out. He thinks about hurricanes, wind so fast you cannot tell which direction it comes from, the desire to either hide in the darkest corner or run out of ones house to see where the wind will carry you.

Hamilton finally finds his voice “Laurens...”

He pulls his hands apart, steps closer and suddenly takes one of Laurens' hands in his. “Laurens, I would not wish you to make me believe otherwise.”

Laurens stares at him in surprise. Then his fingers curl around Hamilton's. “Oh.”

Hamilton looks at Laurens' face, his soft features, the point of his chin, the curve of his lips. He wonders how Laurens would draw himself? Would he put such care into the detail of fingers and the fall of his hair? Hamilton thinks sometimes what we expect no one else to see, what we keep to ourselves, speaks far more than any words we attempt to share.

Hamilton takes one step closer to Laurens. Laurens does not move back or pull away. His eyes gaze intently at Hamilton, not looking elsewhere now. Hamilton reaches out, touches Laurens chin with his free hand. Laurens' body weight shifts forward slightly, the only invitation Hamilton needs, and Hamilton kisses him. 

Laurens remains still for a moment, his hand tight in Hamilton's then he kisses back. Hamilton wants to sing. Laurens presses closer, chest to chest and his other hand sliding down Hamilton's side. Hamilton shudders with pleasure despite himself and Laurens smiles against his lips. Hamilton's mind is oddly blank just the feeling of Laurens' hot hand on his side, Laurens' fingers gripping tight in his own, Laurens' lips pressing harder, his tongue hot and welcome in Hamilton's mouth, the slight scratch of stubble, every sensation heightened to blot out thought.

Then Laurens pulls back with an audible breath in. They stare at each other, almost too close to see properly. Hamilton still touches Laurens' face, their hands still clutch together.

“Oh,” Laurens says.

Hamilton smiles. “Oh.”

“Might I kiss you again?” Laurens asks.

Hamilton chuckles. “I would not have had you stop.”

Laurens kisses Hamilton again, hard and fast, so Hamilton has to step one foot back to keep from stumbling.

“Oh, I –”

“Shh.” Hamilton pulls Laurens back to him with a hand on Laurens' neck.

Laurens kisses him slowly now, his hand creeping up into Hamilton's hair, messing up where it is tied back against his neck. The heat in the room seems to have risen to oppressive levels and Hamilton wants to tug at Laurens' coat, remove any piece of clothing in his way. But perhaps it is too soon, too early when a moment ago they could barely look at each other.

Laurens clutches Hamilton against him, sweat between their clasped hands now, so Hamilton finally pulls his away to hold Laurens' head with both hands. He traces the line of Laurens' jaw, kisses his lips over and over, tastes tea and sweat and he cannot really catalog every aspect because Laurens' hand in his hair is distracting. 

Laurens laughs into their kiss, nips at Hamilton lips and Hamilton's head spins with the idea of other things Laurens' mouth could do.

Then a raucous burst of laughter filters up from the floor below. They both pull back. Laurens glances over Hamilton's shoulder as Hamilton dips his head into the collar of Laurens' coat. The metal buttons feel cool against his hot skin.

“Reed.” Laurens mutters.

Hamilton pulls his head up. “Do you truly dislike him?”

Laurens shrugs. “Not wholly.”

Hamilton smiles. “But perhaps not your favorite for which to share a room and a bed?”

“I could think of others more favorable to me.”

Hamilton thinks he would blush if he were not already so warm.

“I found more of your drawings,” Hamilton says as he runs his hand down Laurens' face and over his neck. “My hands.”

“I thought they were thrown out. ”

Hamilton gives him a wry look. “The one in my coat?”

Laurens glances away. “Well...”

Hamilton chuckles and kisses Laurens once almost chastely. “Thought you would get away with it?”

“Hamilton...”

“Laurens, I... I simply...”

Laurens looks at him, close and his arm around him, not letting go. “Simply what?”

“I did not know someone could think I look such.”

Laurens raises his eyebrows in question.

Hamilton wants to say 'with such love.' “So pleasing.”

Laurens smiles. “I think many things of you, Hamilton.”

“Ah ha? That my hands are worthy of drawing perhaps?” Hamilton says as he runs his hand down Laurens' vest.

Laurens swallows and tries with some obviously difficulty to keep his face serene. “Yes.”

“What else?” Hamilton asks

Laurens purses his lips as his hand around Hamilton's back rubs a line lower over the cloth. “Well, that you are an excellent officer.”

Hamilton groans quietly. “Oh well, is that all?”

“Much more,” Laurens whispers, his eyes on Hamilton's lips.

They stand silently holding each other for a moment. Hamilton's fingers itch to pull at Laurens' cravat, to push him down on the bed but the voices from the floor below keep him still.

“Hamilton, I...” Laurens sighs. “As much as I should wish –”

“Stop,” Hamilton says definitively. “Don't say it.”

“You know we cannot –”

“I don't know that and neither do you.”

“Alexander.”

Hamilton shivers unexpectedly at the use of his Christian name. He presses his lips to Laurens' again, silencing his protests.

“This is a start not just a moment. Are you quite convinced?” Hamilton says. “Would that I could do more to convince you now.”

Laurens makes a half gasp, half sigh sort of noise. “Oh, I would that you could.”

“I will.”

“Alexander.”

“Oh, Laurens, say that again.”

Laurens raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“My name.”

“Alexander,” Laurens says softly. He leans in, his lips against Hamilton's ear. “Alexander.”

Hamilton thinks he could hear Laurens voice say anything at all if he continued to speak just like this, close and warm and private. Hamilton smiles, runs his fingers over the buttons on Laurens' vest but restrains himself from pulling them open. His fellow aides-de-camp below will soon rise above stairs to sleep just as the two of them should be.

“Hamilton.” Laurens pulls back just enough so they can see each other. He smiles. “I –”

Then a loud thump comes from the hallway. They both pull apart and step back from each other. Hamilton glances at the door but does not see the knob turning or hear any voices close yet. He turns back to Laurens. They stare at each other. Hamilton knows this is the start of something.

“You should show me more of your drawings.”

Laurens makes an amused face. “I have some of turtles.”

Hamilton chuckles. “Or perhaps you could pen some new ones?”

Laurens smiles. “I can think of some subjects to capture.”

“One in particular?”

Laurens chuckles. “Yes.”

Hamilton smiles and wants to stay, wants to stay all night and learn things he has yet to try, wants to take the leap.

“I should go.”

Laurens nods with a resigned expression. “Yes.”

“But...”

Laurens steps close again and kisses Hamilton once hard on the lips. “Good night, Alexander.”

Hamilton smiles, steps back and walks over to the door. He glances back at Laurens still standing near his bed. Hamilton grins even more then nods once. “Good night... John.” 

Hamilton opens the door, closes it behind himself as he walks back out into the hall. He rubs his hands together, looks at his fingers anew and cannot stop smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I like citing sources, here are some I used:
> 
>  **Aide-de-camp:** https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Washington%27s_Aides-de-Camp  
>  **Hale-Byrnes House:** http://www.halebyrnes.org/aboutus.html  
>  **Laurens the artist:** http://john-laurens.tumblr.com/post/80210017120/these-are-opaque-watercolors-from-the-ethelind  
>  http://john-laurens.tumblr.com/post/130475269483/whats-the-deal-with-john-laurens-and-turtles  
>  **Hamilton war time line:** https://ciceroprofacto.tumblr.com/post/137034716831/american-revolution-timeline
> 
> AND the Ron Chernow "Alexander Hamilton" biography


End file.
